He grinned again, this one looking a bit stronger as he stood. "I shall not disappoint," he promised as he left the office.
CHAPTER FOUR
The crowd was slow to pick up as the morning turned into afternoon, and it was clear that the majority of foodies who'd come to see Tyler Daniels put on a show had stayed away that day. Though, whether it was due to the absence of the star or the fact that our vineyard was now a crime scene, I wasn't sure.
I roamed the stalls, stopping near the main stage as Gabby put on a show of making Fettuccini Pomodoro from scratch in a way she deemed easy enough for any home cook to follow along. While Tyler had been the larger-than-life personality of the two, Gabby had a certain friendly charm about her as she cooked, deftly breaking eggs into a little well of flour as she regaled the crowd with stories of her Nonna making Sunday dinner back in the old country. Her tone was easy and conversational—nothing like the woman I'd come to know offstage. I had to admit that her dish looked very enticing and smelled even better, the heavenly aromas wafting over the small crowd as she tossed together garlic, fragrant basil, and San Marzano tomatoes.
My stomach growled, reminding me I'd yet to take time out to eat that day. I took a detour to the banh mi booth, where I picked up two sandwiches, and then headed toward the Silver Girl display to deliver one to Ava, whom I suspected hadn't taken time for herself that afternoon either.
Only, as I approached, I realized she was not alone.
Standing next her table of handcrafted jewelry was a woman in a flowy, floral printed sundress and a man I knew all too well.
He looked up as I approached, and a wicked grin snaked across his dark features. "Well, there's my little wine and dine girl," David Allen said, taking a sandwich from my hands and digging in before I could stop him.
"I'm a woman, not a girl," I shot back automatically. "And I'm definitely not your girl. And that was my dinner." I handed the other sandwich to Ava. She gave me a grateful smile that said my guess at how busy she'd been was right.
"Well, well. I see we're in a feisty mood today," David teased, offering back the banh mi he'd taken a large bite from.
I shook my head and shot him a look.
David Allen and I had a complicated relationship. When I first met him, he was my prime suspect in the murder of his stepfather. While he'd turned out to be innocent of that particular crime, there were several gray areas of the criminal law code he traversed on a regular basis, including making a tidy living as a card shark. Not that he needed the cash. David came from a wealthy though highly dysfunctional family (see murdered stepfather reference above). He lived in the guest house of their vacation estate, had a healthy trust fund to keep him flush with video games and weed, and when he wasn't bilking unsuspecting poker players at the country club of their hardly earned cash, he showed his moody paintings at local galleries. Money was not something David Allen needed—he just liked the thrill of getting it.
While I didn't totally approve of David's extracurricular activities, he had displayed some chivalry recently when I'd been in a jam at the Sonoma Links golf club, coming to my aid at just the right moment. I was eternally grateful to him for it, but to say we were in the friend zone would be overstating the situation some. We coexisted peacefully.
Mostly.
"We were just talking about you," David told me, a gleam in his eyes that made me instantly nervous. "You seem to have created quite the excitement up here at your deadly little winery."
"Ha! Excitement is one way to put it," the woman in the sundress said. Up close I recognized her as Ashley Daniels, food critic and Tyler's ex-wife. Though, she looked as if she was as far as possible from mourning—decked out in a sunny red straw hat, high heels, and even more jangling bracelets than the previous day.
"Ms. Daniels," I greeted her. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Oh, honey, don't be. Do I look like I'm at a loss?" she asked with a wide smile, voicing my very thoughts.
"David stopped by just as I was telling Ashley here that we were on the fence about running the full four days of the festival," Ava jumped in.
"Well, I applaud you for going on with the show today," Ashley said, actually clapping her hands together, making the bracelets clack like castanets. "I'm sure Tyler caused you enough inconvenience in life—don't let his death spoil this for you."
David chuckled, leaning against Ava's table. "Wow, and I thought I was cold."
"Oh, honey, pure ice runs through these veins," Ashley responded, still grinning. "That's what a decade of living with Tyler Daniels' ego does to a body."
David nodded his understanding. Before devouring the rest of my dinner.
"Uh, well, I'm not sure we'll be continuing the festival tomorrow," I hedged.
"Oh, what a shame." Ashley frowned. "I bought a four-day ticket."
So had at least two hundred other people, the income from which I was counting on to keep us in the black next month. "I really don't know how many people will even be back." I glanced around at the sparse crowd.
"Look, if you close, you have to refund, correct?" Ashley asked.
"Well, I—" I looked to Ava, not wanting to admit anything until I checked my bank account balance. Could I even afford to refund everyone?
"But if you stay open and people decide not to come on their own…well, that's their choice, isn't it?" she reasoned.
"I-I guess that makes sense," I admitted. I still wasn't sure we were paying proper respect to the deceased star, but I was starting to think I was in the minority there.
"Really," Ashley went on as she picked up a silver necklace, turning it over in her hands, "it's not like anyone can blame you . You didn't kill Tyler." She paused. "Did you?"
"Wh-what? No!"
She winked at me. "Just teasing. Though, I would like to shake that man's hand." She paused again. "Or woman's," she amended.
"You were close to Tyler—who do you think did kill him?" Ava asked.
But Ashley just laughed. "Oh, honey, it's been years since I was even in the neighborhood of close with Tyler. He sends alimony checks. I keep my distance. That's it. I lived the Tyler show for almost ten long years. Plenty long enough to know the real man behind the catchphrases. And his personality was not as pretty as his pictures."
"Then you were married to Tyler when Jean Luc worked for him," I said, recalling my previous conversation with Grant. "At his Los Angeles restaurant?"
Ashley nodded. "Yes. Jean Luc tended bar, so I saw him occasionally."
"You told Detective Grant that Jean Luc was fired."
Ashley blinked at me. "H-how would you know that?"
"Emmy and Detective Grant are close," David said, infusing the statement with much more meaning than made me comfortable. " Quite close, in fact."
"We're…acquaintances," I said.
David raised one dark eyebrow into his long hair but thankfully didn't say anything.
"Oh, I see," Ashley said, eyes going to the silver necklace in her hands again. "Well, yes, the detective did ask me about Tyler and Jean Luc's relationship, and I did say he'd been fired."
"Was he?" I pressed, knowing that was not my sommelier's version of events.
"Well, yes. I mean, I assumed he was. Wasn't he?" She glanced up at me, blinking innocently. "He and Tyler were always at each other's throats. Tyler's explosive personality was one thing he didn't have to fake for the cameras. And Jean Luc—well, those French are just so expressive!"
I had a feeling that not every person from France could be or would appreciate being described that way, but I let it go. Mostly because, well, it did describe this particular person to a tee.
"But you didn't actually witness Tyler fire Jean Luc? Or hear Tyler mention it to you specifically?"
Ashley shrugged. "Like I said, I assumed. But it wasn't like Tyler and I engaged in late-night pillow talk or anything. Back then Tyler's head was usually on someone else's pillow."
David snorted, quickly covering it.
"T
yler cheated on you?" Ava cut in, her tone sympathetic.
But Ashley laughed again, as if she'd long ago spent all negative emotion surrounding that subject. "That man couldn't walk the line if he was on a tightrope. The bigger the bust the better. And, of course, as soon as his TV shows started airing, the man had hordes of foodie groupies. That was the last straw for me."
"How long ago was this?" I asked, hoping I didn't seem like I was prying as much as I actually was. But if Ashley Daniels had harbored animosity toward Tyler for cheating, it was a lovely motive to want him dead. And she was far from a grieving window—or even ex-widow.
"That was ages ago!" she said, waving my question off with the same airy attitude she'd had throughout the conversation about her dead ex. "Look, we both got what we wanted—Tyler was free to make sweet, sweet cupcakes with whatever foodie floozy he wanted, and I got a lovely alimony check each month."
Which meant she had very little reason to want him gone. No Tyler, no more alimony checks.
My disappointment must have been plain on my face, as Ashley laughed again. "Sorry, darling, but really, Tyler had reason to want me dead, not the other way around. My divorce decree was ironclad. Even his fancy attorney couldn't get the payments lowered."
"His attorney tried to lower your alimony payments?" Ava asked, sympathy in her voice again.
Ashley shrugged. "Yes, but like I said, he was unsuccessful."
"Did Tyler say why?"
"I didn't speak to Tyler, my dear. That's like chatting with a brick wall." She laughed at her own joke. "But his attorney said it was because of the lawsuit."
"Lawsuit?" I asked. "Someone was suing Tyler?"
"Well, yes." She blinked at me as if it was common knowledge and she was surprised I had to ask. "Alec Post."
That was news. "Gabriela's boyfriend?"
"Well, I suppose he is now, but Gabby met Alec through Tyler. Alec used to work for him. He cooked in his Sonoma restaurant, actually."
"What was Alec suing him over?" Ava piped up.
But Ashley just shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest. You'd have to ask Alec."
* * *
I left Ashley haggling over the price of the silver necklace with Ava and noticed David Allen followed me away from the booth.
"Well?" he asked as I slowly wound through the festivalgoers.
"Well what?"
"Well, aren't you going to fill me in on the victim in your vineyard?" He grinned mischievously at me.
"Et tu, David?" I asked.
The grin grew. "Meaning?"
"Meaning, I'm afraid all anyone is here for today is sensationalism." I sighed, venting my general frustrations his way. "This is not how I wanted people to be talking about Oak Valley."
"Aw, poor Ems," David said, laying an arm around my shoulders in a move that was just a little too familiar to feel comfortable. His shirt smelled faintly of marijuana and some spicy aftershave, which was a much more pleasant combination than I would have guessed, and his lazy grin held the slightest hint of something predatory beneath it as he added, "Come have a glass of wine and tell me all about it."
"Hard pass," I decided. Chatting with David always made me feel like a small fish swimming precariously close to the big shark. If I was lucky, the shark would protect me from the big fish. If I was unlucky, I didn't want to know what those teeth could do.
Though, if David was offended, he didn't show it. "Well, at least tell me we're going to find out why Alec Post was suing his former employer."
"I doubt Alec Post will want to discuss the finer details of a lawsuit against a murder victim with me," I reasoned.
David shook his head. "You don't need him to. If the suit was filed in California, it will be public record. All civil court records are."
I paused, feeling my left eyebrow go up. "Since when do you know the California legal system so well?"
"Since I started playing poker with Judge Tomlinson."
"Poor Judge Tomlinson," I mused.
David laughed. "Well don't feel too sorry for him. The old goat's a total racist and plans to cut his gay son out of his will."
"So now you're card sharking for humanity?"
David shook his head at me. "Don't confuse sentiment with intention, Ems. You know I'd shark my grandmother, given the chance."
Interesting statement, since his grandmother was in jail. The Allen/Price family was highly dysfunctional.
"So you think we could access details of Alec's lawsuit online somewhere?" I asked David as I pulled out my phone.
"Possibly. How many details depends on how recently it was filed, but we could at least get an overview."
He looked over my shoulder as I opened a browser and typed in Sonoma County Court. A search engine directed me to the Superior Court's website, where, with a couple quick clicks, I found a page to search civil cases by date and keyword. I had to guess at a few parameters, like whether we were talking small claims court or high dollar, but after trying a few dates, I finally found a hit for Daniels in the unlimited civil cases section—claims over twenty-five thousand dollars.
Details were, unfortunately, sparse—just a case number, the names of the two parties, Post v. Daniels, and the claim of the action: Fraud.
"Fraud?" I frowned at the word. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but this threw me. "What could Tyler have been fraudulent about that could have hurt Alec?"
"Hard to say," David answered.
"You think it had something to do with when Alec worked at his restaurant? Like, maybe Alec saw something or overheard something?"
"It really could be anything. Suit was just filed a couple of months ago," he noted. "No judgment yet."
"Which means?" I asked.
"Anybody can sue anybody else for just about anything. Frivolous lawsuits are brought all the time. Since it's still pending, it's hard to know if Alec was just tying up Tyler's time and money or if there was a legitimate claim."
I bit my lip, staring at the screen. The SCV court that was listed as scheduled to hear the case dealt in claims twenty-five thousand…and up. Meaning we could be talking several hundred thousand or even millions. If Tyler's lawyer had actually tried to get Ashley's alimony payments lowered, that made me think we could be talking about a significant amount. And it also seemed as if his lawyer thought there was at least some merit to the claims.
I glanced toward the stage where I'd last seen Alec, standing supportively on the sidelines when Gabby had demonstrated her chicken Milanese. No sign of either now, but a couple of Tyler's former glam squad members were milling around, glasses of wine in hand. With David on my heels, I quickly threaded my way through the crowd toward the raised stage and addressed the taller of the two bleached blonds.
"Excuse me?" I called up.
He paused, turning his attention my way.
"I'm looking for Alec Post. He was here with Gabby earlier?"
"Tall guy? Kind of young?" he asked.
I nodded. "Have you seen him?"
But the blond shook his head. "Sorry, I think they left. Gabby said she had a headache from all the pollen in the air."
I bit back a snide comment. The pollen count today was at moderate to none. "Any idea if they went back to the hotel?"
But the blond just shrugged. "Sorry."
I thanked him, trying not to feel too dejected as I turned away. I could try calling Gabby to talk to Alec, but this was honestly the type of conversation that I wanted to have face to face—where I could see the millennial's reactions.
"So, what now?" David asked, leaning casually against the stage.
I glanced at the time readout on my phone. Just after six. While Gabby might be done for the day, there was one place that was now open for business. Tyler's Place, in downtown Sonoma. Where Tyler's business partner, Mark Black—who still hadn't gotten back to me—worked.
And I still hadn't eaten.
"Feel like grabbing dinner in town?" I asked.
One of David's dark eyebrows rose into
his hairline. "What happened to the hard pass?"
"Are you coming with me or not?" I sighed.
"Oh, I'm coming," he assured me, his eyes still twinkling with mocking humor. "You think I'd pass up a date?"
I scoffed. "This is not a date. You should be so lucky."
"Hmm." He narrowed his eyes at me, a grin spreading across his face.
"'Hmm' what?"
"I do get on a lucky streak now and then." The grin grew. "Just ask Judge Tomlinson."
"Just for that, you're buying."
CHAPTER FIVE
Half an hour later we pulled up to Tyler's Place on E. Napa. While the restaurant had started as a fine dining establishment, garnering some nice reviews early on that had gotten Tyler noticed on the foodie scene, it was now a kitschy monument to Tyler's onscreen persona, covered in neon writing and a large picture of Tyler's sparkling white smile ten feet high on the side of the building.
David parked the white Rolls Royce that was a hand-me-down from his mother, and we walked into the restaurant, where a life-size cardboard cutout of Tyler greeted us. At its base, some patrons had put flowers, making for an unconventional memorial in the lobby.
Which, by the way, was packed. If Tyler's death had turned people off to my Food and Wine Festival, it had only brought them in droves to Tyler's Place. The lobby was wall-to-wall patrons awaiting tables—sitting on benches along the windows, lining the walls, and spilling out into the walkways. David and I fought our way through them to approach a woman at a wooden hostess station, whose nametag read Mandy .
"Wow, busy tonight, huh?" I noted.
She laughed. "You're telling me. I haven't even had a chance for a potty break since I got on shift."
I couldn't help a smile at her candor. "We were hoping to get a table for two," I told her, fearing how long that wait would be.
"Oh wow. Do you have reservations?"
"Uh, no, not really," I admitted.
She pursed her lips together. "Well, the wait is about an hour for a table right now." She glanced at the packed waiting room.
"I'm guessing you're not always this busy," I said.
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